


Interlude

by Lykegenia



Series: Rosslyn Cousland [14]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair Smut, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff and Smut, King Alistair, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex Is Fun, Shameless Smut, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 05:27:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16079387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lykegenia/pseuds/Lykegenia
Summary: This really doesn't have a plot, guys.





	Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> The deal with this is that it was originally part of one of my other oneshots, but it didn't fit so I shoved it in a spare document. Turns out that was the right thing to do ;)

She still doesn’t quite know how they ended up like this – or she does, but Alistair’s ability to turn a simple evening of paperwork into hours of passionate lovemaking never fails to impress her. His hands have a muscle memory for the laces on her shirts, his mouth draws breathy giggles as it tracks a ravenous path from the corner of her jaw down newly exposed flesh. She whimpers when he reaches her breasts, still wrapped in their band, and when he leaves off teasing for a sharp bite right over the nipple, the small sound morphs into a gasp that digs in with the clutch of her fingers and the arch of her back. A flash of a grin and his mouth lowers again, soothing his tongue over the wet fabric, and her eyes fall shut, head dropping back to the desk with a thud as his hands join in the worship of her body.

“You are the most beautiful woman in Thedas,” he purrs as he lifts away, just far enough to watch the desperate frown of pleasure on her face.

She pulls at the layers still hiding the broadness of his shoulders. “Flattery won’t work today, Your Majesty,” she warns him. “Shirt. Off.”

A rumble of amusement. “As my lady wishes.”

He rears back, unable to step away because her legs are still wrapped around his waist, smirking as she props herself on her elbows and follows the lift of the material. The low, narrow line of tawny hair draws the trace of her finger upwards, defines the warrior shape of him across his stomach, scatters over the broad planes of his chest. Every sensitive inch of skin she knows by heart.

He’s back on her before the garment even hits the floor. Pulled down at the neck, meeting her kiss with eager lips and the heavy, deliberate grind of his hips, the slow building passion that tells her he’s torn between savouring the moment and devouring it, and the choosing of which she wants flies from her mind with the heat of his tongue in her mouth. She just wants _him_. She’s missed him, these moments they can snatch together, without the stiff disapproval of the court, the spectres of propriety and duty. Sometimes she wishes for their old tent, the nights when they could just be themselves wrapped in love and sweat and sighs without a kingdom to think about.

Her nails scrape up the arching line of his back. Salt coats her breath as she kisses along his jaw, bites his earlobe, hisses at the shivers his fingertips tempt out of her skin.

“Lie back,” he breathes, and she lets him lay her down.

The wood is warm and worn underneath her back, the papers they were meant to be reading crinkling as her weight shifts but he’s kissing a path over her navel so she doesn’t care. A thumb lingers on the scar that slashes diagonally down from the bottom of her ribs, regretful, but the other hand is already skimming the laces of her breeches. He teases the hem with his teeth.

“Yes?”

“ _Yes_.”

One last kiss as he crouches and sets to work on the laces, leaving her nothing to do but stroke her fingers through his hair and rest her head on the crook of her arm to watch as he stands and lifts her legs up to his shoulders. One boot, then the other. The hot press of his mouth to her ankle, his eyes alight with mischief as his fingers trail back up her legs, lingering on the ticklish spot behind her knees. Smalls come off with breeches, slipping over her hips with a firm squeeze of her arse, every inch teasing, dragging fingertips along behind the sweep of cloth until she’s bared to him. His gaze never leaves hers, never loses the hungry glint that sends lightning fizzing through her limbs. He discards her clothes with the barest thought, already sliding closer, kissing and kneading his slow way up her calves, taking great joy in the way it makes her wriggle and whimper his name.

Her legs are still over his shoulders as he kneels at the edge of the desk and exhales a slow breath across her centre.

“Alistair –”

She squirms as he feathers a kiss against her inner thigh, stubble rough against soft skin, muscles tensing to curb the reaction to the touch.

“Already so wet for me, love?” he murmurs, parting her folds with a light finger that makes her dig her heels into his back. “Tell me what you want.”

She swallows, frowning, unable to scramble her thoughts together for anything more coherent than a groan.

“Rosslyn,” he chides, drawing out each syllable like a chant, “tell me.”

For a moment, she allows herself to wallow in the anticipation, the knowledge that he waits to begin with the same eagerness that already has her legs trembling. She strokes her fingers through his hair, seeking out the shell of his ear and the strong line of his jaw, smiling when he turns into the touch and sets a kiss against the inside of her wrist.

“I want your mouth on me,” she tells him at last, not bothering to hide the unsteady edge to her voice. With him, she needs no façade. “ _Please_.”

A kiss, carefully placed, and even as she whines she feels his grin. Then his tongue, a slow stripe lapping, with just enough space left between each deft, broad movement to build the sensation into something greater, each spark of pleasure kindled brighter than the one before. His palm is braced on her thigh, bruising as he pulls her apart, pushes closer to heed her direction as she urges him deeper, faster, _more like that_.

Distantly, she hears the crumple of paper in the scrabble to find a grounding in reality. Her own moans counterpoint the lick of his tongue, the low chuckles as he works and she grinds against his face like it isn’t enough. A low hum rumbles from him that doesn’t reach her ears but instead thrills through the core of her being, teasing, higher, until she’s heated bright as copper, shuddering, hips straining, feet pressed into his back and throat closed to everything but a high, keening whimper. And then he slides his fingers from the skin of her thigh to the silk of her core, two digits to tease then slip inside between the first flutters of her orgasm.

“ _Fuck_.”

He grins again as her hand finds his hair. The other braces flat against the wood grain of the desk as her thighs tighten around his head, back arching into the press of his fingers. Every muscle coils inwards, awareness shrinks to the glide of Alistair’s tongue, rough stubble and harsh breath that steals her imprecations and turns them into wordless, broken-ended whines. She goes silent, desperate. He groans and curls his fingers in just the right spot, and the world turns over.

Her limbs convulse with the shock of it, the seizing, searing heat that leaves her floating like an afterimage outside herself and then comes crashing down. Only curses come to her lips, tangled together the way her hands are still tangled in his hair.

The flood subsides and leaves her boneless, soporific, smiling like a cat in a sunbeam. Her eyes blink open, and still dazed she leans up to find her beloved resting his head on the soft flesh below her navel, entirely too proud of his work, lips swollen red and glistening with arousal that coats him all the way to his chin. It’s too funny. Giggles burst from her chest, half-hysterical, and she falls back, muffling the sound behind her hand. If she wasn’t so overcome, she’d pull him up to kiss the smirk right off his lips.

When she masters herself to look again, she’s pinned. The rapt attention in his eyes, the almost quizzical tilt to his brows, as if they haven’t shared such intimacy a hundred times already. She reaches out to caress his face, staggering up on one arm yet unwilling to bear the weight. He wipes a palm over his mouth and stands, catching her as she climbs into a sitting position. A pause for reassurance in the press of forehead to forehead.

“Alistair…”

She kisses him, with the taste of herself in his smile. Hands roam up her back but, oversensitive, her mind draws down to the insistent hardness trapped against her thigh, the tension as he holds himself back from seeking relief. His fingers are soft on the knot of her band – she forgot she was still wearing it – but she pushes his hands away, trails her palms down his chest.

A smile when she falls upon the knot that holds his breeches. “Your turn.”

 


End file.
